I sent the manuscript to my editor last Thursday. I've been useless since.
This is the part nobody tells you about. You spend a year or two inside a book, living with these people, rearranging their furniture, and then suddenly it's done and you have nothing to do with your hands.
The waiting
Here is what I've done in the six days since I hit send:
- Cleaned the entire house, including behind the refrigerator
- Reorganized my bookshelves by color (a thing you only do when you're avoiding thinking)
- Walked Walter so many times he started hiding when I picked up the leash
- Read half of a novel, put it down, started a different one, put that down too
- Stared at the wall
The truth is I don't know if this one works. I felt good about it in October. I felt terrible about it in December. Right now I feel nothing, which might be the healthiest option.
What I do know
The book is about a woman named Ruth who moves back to her hometown after twenty years and discovers that the version of her everyone remembers isn't someone she recognizes. It's the most autobiographical thing I've written, which is probably why I'm so nervous about it. There's less distance to hide behind.
My therapist says I should sit with the uncertainty. I'm sitting with it. It's uncomfortable. I keep checking my email like my editor is going to respond in less than a week, which has literally never happened in the history of publishing.
I think what scares me most is that this book asks more of the reader than my previous ones. The Year of Letting Go had a clean emotional arc. This one is messier. I left some things unresolved on purpose, and I'm not sure yet whether that reads as intentional or just unfinished. I guess we'll find out.